


still here like a cheap threat

by icarusandtheson



Series: encore [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Class Differences, Complicated Relationships, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Infidelity, Emotional Turmoil, F/M, Gen, M/M, Minor Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Self-Worth Issues, Sexuality Crisis, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, alcohol use, pre-Alex/George
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-13 03:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13561887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusandtheson/pseuds/icarusandtheson
Summary: Following the Charles Lee debacle and his own suspension, Alex searches for a way forward.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> additional warnings for: mild disassociation, brief suicide/violence ideation.

Alex is well accustomed to silence in aftermath, but there’s always mess. Flooded rooms, torn shingles, reflections of the destruction. A promise that it happened, that he was right to feel the aftershocks inside himself, that he was in sync with the world around him. Something tangible, to be repaired or replaced or scrapped -- a way forward.

His shoes are dry. There’s sunlight, and Washington’s books are still organized alphabetically on the shelves that line the uncracked walls.

He can’t look at Washington, can’t meet his eyes.

He stares at Washington’s desk instead, the neatly piled folders, the sleek laptop still open. Alex can vaguely make out the screen -- Washington’s email, probably flooding as they speak -- the framed picture of Washington and his family, his arms around Martha and the kids while they beam at the camera, beatific and perfectly mocking.     

For what it’s worth, Washington won’t meet his gaze either. Alex can only see his profile, his hand curling and uncurling at his side. His expression has smoothed out into the same controlled facade he faces down dogged reporters and critics with. It feels deeply wrong to see it here, with only the two of them -- which is probably Washington’s intention.

Fuck him, _fuck him_ because it works. Alex is four feet tall and a decade younger and the silence sounds like a slamming door. He didn’t beg back then, didn’t have the chance to -- he doesn’t know if he would have. Maybe it would make a difference now, or maybe Washington would look away, furious and ashamed the way he did when Alex tried to explain -- before Alex fell back on gritted teeth and raised walls inside himself because Washington doesn’t _understand_ this time, even though he always did before, even when Alex wished he wouldn’t.    

_Keep me for the ego boost, because you feel sorry for me and I’m a good success story to lord over your critics. Keep me because I know what you need before you do, and that trumps one mistake._

He never wanted to be a charity case, but he’s clawed his way up here, he’s so _close_ to everything he ever wanted _._ So he considers it. Considers begging this rich man to let him keep his job, apologizing for having his back, for giving a shit about people spreading lies about him.

Alex’s teeth lock, and the words stay in.

What escapes instead is, “Sir --” a shameful, desperate bit of sound with no argument to hold it firm. It slides between the gaps of his teeth while the rest stays caught in his molars, ground to dust.

“Go home,” Washington says, flat and tired. Not even looking at him. Like he’s no one. Like he’s nothing.  

Suspended until further notice. Alex doesn’t hold out on false hope -- it’ll be official, once the press dies down around the entire debacle. Washington’s last gift, if it can be called that -- not firing him outright in total disgrace.

Sisyphus on the hill. The rock rolls back to the bottom. If Alex unlocks his jaw he’s going to start screaming and never stop.

Then he’s walking out. Lafayette looks up as he passes, sympathy shifting to alarm as Alex bypasses his desk entirely to collect his belongings and head for the elevator. Maybe he says something, calls after him, but Alex’s thoughts don’t slow enough for him to process any of it. He doesn’t see John anywhere -- he’s probably making himself scarce, not that it matters. Washington can’t afford to let go of anyone else right now -- vicious satisfaction at that, Alex knows he’ll leave a vacuum in Washington’s workload -- John will be fine. The thought is less of a relief than it should be.

John said _we’re not letting this slide, right?_ and Alex was already half-forming the speech in his head, something about public trust and transparency that would appeal to Washington’s kryptonitic honor. John said _you’ll talk Washington down, right?_ said _he’ll listen to you_ said _you’re his favorite_ and Alex rolled his eyes but took it for truth, both of them high on self-righteousness and dead certain they could make Lee recant.

Washington said _my office now_ and Alex’s carefully organized talking points said:

And the shame-anger-fear pushing up and out his throat said: - - - -

Numb rage carries him to the lobby without disrupting the static in his brain. Alex stares down at the polished dark tile as the panic starts to set in, not parting the static but mingling with it, sharp and dizzying. Throbbing underneath it all like a bassline -- _fuckthisplacefuckthisjobfuckWashington._

Except thinking about Washington is a _mistake,_ the dressing-down far too fresh, Washington’s words still biting welts into his skin with stinging accuracy. Alex’s own fault -- he gave Washington too much to work with, enough that Washington knew how to twist the knife when he lectured about _optics_ and _good judgement --_

_“How am I supposed to trust you after this?”_

Worst of all, the moment before. Washington, brow furrowed, not furious, not yet, but disappointed. Exhausted, in that end-of-the-rope way Alex is intimately acquainted with, that everyone who knows him is acquainted with eventually: _“Hamilton, what have you done?”_

How many times has he heard Washington chew out other employees and felt _proud,_ that he never fucked up like that? When more often than not Alex would fix the issue _himself_ and earn a grateful half-smile from his boss and feel like he was _worth something,_ that he earned his place here more than anyone _._

Addendum. The worst part -- that the end-of-the-rope look, tucked into the downward slope of Washington’s mouth, the twitch in his jaw, left Alex blindsided. That he thought Washington would lay a heavy hand on his shoulder and say, “Don’t do it again,” but mean _thank you._ That he would know Alex would fight for his legacy, his honor, even if he couldn’t.

Like this was a story, where Alex could be the hero and Washington…

Stupid. Infantile. On the other side of it, he’s left breathless by how irrational it was.

The elevator sounds behind him. He glances back, something like hope knocking loose in his chest. He makes eye contact with a total stranger, blinks slowly as they walk past him.

He reaches for the numbness again, and the bassline fades long enough for him to walk the twenty-two steps to the door. It’s bright out. The afternoon sun catches window panes and metal sidings, sets everything aglow. A nauseating moment of vertigo as he reacquaints himself with a street he’s only ever seen pre-dawn or long after dark.

He realizes abruptly that he has nowhere to go. His friends are at work, two of them in the building behind him, and the idea of returning to an empty apartment and being alone with himself turns his stomach. Every space inside of him that was beginning to scar closed is steadily gaping open again. He can’t breathe deep enough to fill all of it, doesn’t remember how. _Stupid, so fucking stupid._

He fumbles for his phone, eager for anything that isn’t _here_ and _real_ and _loud_. He stares blankly at the screen for a few moments, blinking the haze from his vision as his brain struggles to make sense of anything on the screen. A text from this morning, Eliza telling him to have a good day. Three heart emojis.

He’s typing before he can even process why.

 **To Eliza Schuyler:** Are you home?

The response notification pops up before he can berate himself for sending the text in the first place.

 **From Eliza Schuyler:** No, why?

Disappointment slicks its way down his throat, into his gut. The violent, inexplicable urge to smash his phone against the pavement nearly overwhelms him. He curbs it. It’s not like he can afford a new phone. He can’t afford anything unnecessary, now. He’s intimately familiar with the rhythm of his bank account, knows precisely when it will run out without new income. It’s significantly less time than he needs. Fuck.  

 **From Eliza Schuyler:** Is everything okay

 **To Eliza Schuyler [Draft]:** Y

 **From Eliza Schuyler:** Alex?

 **To Eliza Schuyler:** I think I just lost my job

He tastes bile when he hits send. Writing it down abruptly makes it real, tangible. His miracle opportunity, his big shot, and he blew it for… for what? Defending a man who clearly doesn’t give a shit about anything beyond his own image. After everything Alex has done for him in the past year, after everything he _gave --_

The sting of it is hard to breathe around. It’s been a while since he’s felt like gutter trash, and the hate he feels toward Washington for bringing him back to that place is so potent and tangible he can almost sink his teeth into it.

Washington glancing up over his glasses an age ago, wearing a half-smile as exasperated as it was amused. _“I used to be just like you,”_ he said, and meant _stubborn,_ meant _proud,_ and even then Alex wondered _how could that possibly be true?_ with something a little like envy. Washington behind his solid oak desk, degrees and accolades on the wall and so much more in his future to just reach out and take, if he wanted. The whole world in his hand, if he wanted.  

 _“I used to be just like you,”_ Washington said, like the chasm of provenance and circumstance wasn’t miles wide between them. _“I used to be just like you,”_ Washington said, and tore the chance to make his words something close to true right out of Alex’s hands.

His phone is silent. He tells himself he’s not surprised. One thing to date an up-and-comer, another to date an unemployed nobody with no prospects, not even the hope of a reference letter. Washington plays golf with Phillip Schuyler whenever he gets the chance. Eliza greeted him and Martha like old friends the first time Alex brought her to a party. None of this is shocking. He knew this was coming, or should have.  

_“Did you even consider how this would affect Eliza? The scrutiny you’ve put her under? She needs you to think before you take unnecessary risks, Alexander. So do I.”_

**From Gilbert Lafayette:** Where are you

 **From Gilbert Lafayette:** GWash is livid what happened

 **From Gilbert Lafayette:** Alex

Alex leaves his read receipts on, doesn’t respond, doesn’t know how to, not without giving voice to the noxious anger brewing in his chest -- at Lafayette for not coming after him, for staying in Washington’s good graces, for warning him to forget about Lee; at John for all of that and more; at _himself_ for not _listening_ and gambling on goodwill he never actually had. 

**To Gilbert Lafayette [Draft]:** Tell him to go fu

 **From Eliza Schuyler:** Leaving now

 **From Eliza Schuyler:** I’ll be home in twenty minutes

 **To Eliza Schuyler [Draft]:** You don’t have

 **To Eliza Schuyler [Draft]:** I’m so

 **From Eliza Schuyler:** Let yourself in

 **To Eliza Schuyler:** Thanks

 **From Eliza Schuyler:** It’s gonna be okay

Three heart emojis. Alex chokes on a wet laugh, too loud to be appropriate, earns a strange look from a couple passing by.

Alex tightens his grip around his phone, feels the cracks in his case where they bite into his skin. He breathes out, steadier than he could manage a few moments ago.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and starts off down the street. He suddenly can’t bear another moment standing in front of that building, even if logically, he knows nobody upstairs can see him, Washington can’t _see him,_ even if he’s still where Alex left him, glowering out the window, anger barely restrained.

It’s the _barely_ that kills him. Alex so badly wanted to fracture that ironclad control, to have Washington feel that same shame and self-disgust he inflicted. He’s never wanted to pick  a fight so badly, never gone after it like that as an adult. He thought the kid who got up in the face of guys twice his size got some fucking _sense_ beaten into him years ago, but apparently not.

Fuck if it hadn’t felt good. That same anger he turned on Lee swerved viciously to fixate on Washington, and it was so much more satisfying, for the handful of moments the anger buoyed him.

Anyone else would have decked him. Washington would easily have fractured his jaw, and then Alex would have been _right_ and it would have been worth spitting blood for days or weeks at a time.  

In that moment, Alex wanted it more than he’d ever wanted everything -- not his mother, not to make it in America, nothing was stronger. One awful, splintered moment, Washington’s breath hot on his skin. _Do it, prove me right, just fucking_ do _it._

But he hadn’t. His expression shuttered, and he ordered Alex out, and it was over. Washington the honorable, Washington the good. Of course he found a way to suckerpunch Alex without laying a finger on him. Couldn’t even give him that much before he threw him out on his ass.

Washington’s face, after Alex screamed at him. Shock-anger-disappointment-regret. Then nothing. Blank, cold, barren. The undeniable knowledge that nothing could grow here.

Alex grits his teeth and keeps walking. Bottom of the hill. He can do it again.

\-----

Eliza keeps a surprisingly well-stocked liquor cabinet. One of many delightful surprises about her -- she’s flouted expectations regularly, since they first met and he thought _naive, sweet, spoiled._

Sometimes those things are true, sometimes not. Now is part of _not --_ Eliza in the living room, makeup flawless, hair pinned up, sensible slacks and a flowing white blouse. Alex on the couch, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, mouth slick and burning where his teeth broke skin.

This is probably exactly what Phillip Schuyler feared, when Eliza told him they were dating. Alex could learn, maybe, about flouting expectations. He slicks his tongue along the back of his teeth, his mouth sour.

There’s some novelty bottle of vodka on the shelf, birthday cake flavored. A gag gift from her sisters, maybe. It probably tastes like shit, but right now he wants sweetness, even the sickening saccharine kind. It’s unopened, though, and he feels rude asking.

“You could at least use a coaster,” Eliza says, mouth twitching up at the corner.  

Alex thinks, _God, I fucking love you,_ and feels the panic start to recede -- low tide, instead of the pre-deluge gathering of a tidal wave. Eliza standing in her wide-windowed living room because he needed her here, hoop earrings glinting gold in the light.  

She passes him a coaster from the neat pastel pile on the coffee table and drops onto the couch beside him. The ceramic is cool in his hand, and he focuses on the watercolor flowers for a moment, the soft lines blurring into each other. He leans against her, feels the warmth of her in a line from knee to shoulder.  

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

She reaches for the gin and refills Alex’s glass wordlessly, taking a drink straight from the bottle afterwards. He makes a quiet sound of protest that’s more laugh than censure.

“If you’re worried about cooties at this point, I don’t know what to tell you, Hamilton,” she says dryly, and takes another drink.

He snorts, turns his head to fit against her shoulder. She tucks her legs underneath her, foot nudging against his thigh. Easy, comfortable, like this is a date they planned days ago. Dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, Eliza’s pretty green plants stretching towards the light.  

“I fucked up,” Alex says, half-expecting it all to disappear. Privileges revoked, visitor’s pass terminated, please step off the ride -- he’ll blink and be back in St. Croix.    

The room stays bright and airy, Eliza stays beside him, free hand resting over his. Her thumb strokes over his knuckles. She turns her head, presses a kiss against his hair.

Alex says, “I,” and then nothing. His throat aches, and the words aren’t there. A little shiver of panic at that, but numbed. The words will come, or they won’t -- he doesn’t have anything to use them for, now.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Eliza says, and in that moment it feels like the kindest thing anyone has ever said to him.

He ditches the glass eventually, puts it on the coaster, a little off-center, and they pass the bottle between them.

He holds his next drink in his mouth, lets it sit burning on his tongue for a moment. Even when he swallows, his mouth is sour-slick with shame. Eliza’s bracelet chimes softly as she moves, the sound overloud in his ears. If he concentrates, it can almost drown out the rest of his thoughts.

Eliza queues something up on Netflix, bright and riddled with a persistent laugh track. His phone vibrates intermittently, notifications brightening the screen in short static bursts. He switches it off, sets it on the table, safely out of reach for when that phantom-limb twitch settles into his fingers.

The sun slipping from Eliza’s windows, painting the city below gold in its descent. He wants to go out on the balcony, and in the same thought acknowledges that it’s a bad idea. Heights, and fast-moving traffic, and being alone. If there isn’t any damage, there was no storm.  

A vague conversation about food, takeout boxes on the table.

Alex reaches for his wallet. “Here, I can --”

“I’ve got it.” Credit card in her hand, dark and sleek and silvered when she tilts it, tosses it on the table, deceivingly careless for a bit of plastic with more money than most of the city will ever see.

There’s a space where he would usually protest, trigger a back-and-forth that inevitably ended in a bill split down the middle. Eliza reaches for the food, matter settled. Working off of a different script, one that he’s fought so fucking hard to stay away from.

His stomach roils, coffee and gin and bile. He stares out the windows instead, tracks the city with his eyes until it blurs. Truncated credits bleed into the opening theme of the next episode.

Hunger wins out, eventually. Alex reaches for a carton of lukewarm noodles. The laugh track plays.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex scrambles for closure. He doesn't get it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Missed you, missed my boys. Let's go.

There’s a paper bag staring Alex in the face, spotted with grease and smelling like sugar and everything fried. John shrugs at his confused look, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. There’s something so childishly eager in his expression -- Alex would laugh, if any of this were even remotely funny,

Alex tugs his earbuds out, raising an eyebrow. “Am I being bribed?”

“Is it working?” John counters. The silence extends, and his smile fades slightly, turns fragile.

“John --”

He rolls his eyes. “Just take the fucking doughnut, Alex.”

Alex does, sets it on the coffee table. There’s a nonzero chance the grease will smudge, but the table has probably seen worse. “Thanks.”

“Aren’t you gonna eat it?”

“Not hungry.”

John frowns. “Did you eat anything yet? Or have you just been surviving on this all day?” He nods toward the mostly empty coffee mug on the table.

Alex shifts his attention back to his laptop, frowns at the screen as he reconsiders his resume. “I’m fine.”

“That’s -- not even _remotely_ an answer, seriously.” When Alex doesn’t respond, John exhales loudly. “How are you still ignoring me? You don’t even have anything to work on.”

Alex goes rigid. For a moment, he can’t think beyond the white-hot rage-regret-loss that bubbles up into his throat, the near-endless list of responses that would pick a vicious, screaming fight or sever their friendship like a knife.

But John has known him for a long time, has learned to read the set of Alex’s spine like a warning sign, and he backtracks quickly. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t…” He tugs a hand through his curls, sighing. “This isn’t how I wanted this to go.”

“I’m trying to find a job so I can pay our fucking _rent,”_ Alex spits, when he can trust himself not to lay the foundations for yet another burnt bridge. “Can I not do that without your permission?”

John goes quiet. Alex doesn’t look at his face, sure that if he sees shame or pity or _anything_ related to this mess he’s made of his life, he’ll fucking lose it.

“Alex, I can --” John starts.

“The next person to say they’ll spot me rent money is getting cut out of my life _indefinitely,”_ Alex snaps. He thinks of this morning, Eliza’s sweet, earnest face, his nails carving into his palms from when she offered a loan she had no intention of seeing returned. “I _can_ actually hold down a job when my boss isn’t a first-class asshole.”

“Can you chill the fuck out for _two seconds?_ I get that you’re pissed at me --”

“I’m not.”

“He said, through his teeth.”

“Fuck _off.”_ Alex snaps his laptop shut and stuffs it into his bag -- the glare of the screen, the weight of it on his thighs all suddenly unbearable. His hands clench and unclench, empty, until he fixes their grip on his knees.

John eyes him warily, hand rising as if to reach out and then falling. “Alex...”

Alex glares at the far wall and keeps his teeth pressed carefully together.

“I'm sorry, okay? I was stupid, I never should have opened my dumb fucking mouth about Lee, and I should've gotten in just as much shit as you did.” John sits heavily on the couch. “I don't fucking know why Washington didn't throw my ass out – he was furious. I thought I was done, and he'd keep you on with a warning because... like, it's _you._ Him and Lafayette are close but y'all were fucking symbiotic, or some shit.”

Alex shuts his eyes, feels the beginnings of a godawful headache brewing because he is still so, so angry, and John's guilt isn't nearly as satisfying as he thought it would be _._ “You didn't directly undermine him, and I did.”

“Bullshit, you made a _career_ out of undermining Washington and he never said shit. I get that the press was bad on this, but... Jesus.”

Alex shrugs tensely. Late last night, he'd entertained the theories crawling in the recesses of his mind: of _course_ Washington wouldn't want to risk pissing off the Laurens' by blaming John, of course he'd fire the loudmouth immigrant brat that everyone said he never should have plucked out of obscurity in the first place. It was neat, it was easy, and maybe Washington's sense of honor didn't apply to charity cases that bit the hand that fed.

Now that the blind panic has receded, now that he's not staring down Eliza's balcony view like it's the barrel of a gun, he's not sure. John isn't entirely right: Alex ran with loopholes in Washington's orders before, but never disobeyed directly. Maybe, if he let John handle it, if he wasn't so fucking eager to hear Lee admit he was full of shit _in person_ \--

 _Focus, Hamilton._ There's room for more than one explanation, based on the evidence he has. He thinks of Washington's hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy, thinks of that last cold gaze, and he honestly _doesn't know._ The thought that he could have been so wrong about someone he worked so closely with – that he cared about -- turns his stomach.

Ordinarily, he would talk this out with his friends, but he keeps his mouth shut now. Rich-kid connections or not, John still worked his ass off for his spot under Washington, and if Alex implied anything to the contrary – either he'd lose John, or John would quit and be entirely dependant on his family until he could find something new.

The worst part: he's not sure if _that's_ what's keeping him quiet, or if it's the thought of having to admit Washington might not be the paragon of goodness Alex fought tooth and nail for.

“It doesn't matter,” Alex says, his voice thick. When John starts to protest, he adds, “If I think about it too much... just drop it, alright?”

John's expression softens. “Yeah, whatever you want.” He reaches over, rests his hand over Alex's to squeeze his knee. “Got your back, though. You know that, right?”

Alex snorts softly, feels some of the tension leave his body even though nothing is solved, his life still a truly impressive wreck. “Thanks, Doctor Phil.”

John rolls his eyes, but he's smiling, all bright teeth and freckles.

Alex reaches for the paper bag with renewed interest, eager for a change in topic – and it's possible that he hasn't eaten much today, though he'll be damned if he admits it to John. He eyes the sprinkled, chocolate-glazed monstrosity inside. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

John hums, throwing his arm over Alex’s shoulders. “Gotta up your calorie intake somehow.”

Alex huffs, and after a moment, leans back into his touch. “So I only get one? What do I have to do for a dozen, _die?”_

“If you don’t eat the goddamn peace offering, Hamilton, I swear to god I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Alex smiles a little, despite himself, and tears a piece off the doughnut.

\-------

Alex squints at his phone, still bleary despite the coffee mug he's been clutching like a lifeline since he woke up. His glasses are more irritating than helpful, but trying to focus on the job application through the additional blur just makes his temples ache.

He tosses his phone across the couch, the muffled thud it makes against the pillow less-than-satisfying. It's not like he's missing much – he's in professional purgatory until Washington ends his contract officially, any attempts at a job search are pointless until then. A cursory search confirmed what he already knew – his salary wasn't incredible, but it was more money than he'd ever made, and nothing he can apply for quickly will match up.

He takes a long drink, wincing – lukewarm, and noticeably bitter now that it's not too hot to taste. He weighs the benefit of staying on the couch against drinking shitty coffee, and pushes himself up with a sigh. His phone beeps: a notification from Eliza, probably saying good morning before she heads out for a run. Alex glances at the job site, still open beneath the text pop-up. He swipes the screen, the notification fades.

He heads into the kitchen, squinting against the unexpected light. He frowns at the tall figure hunched over the kitchen table, pausing at the threshold. Lafayette glances up, wary surprise flickering across his face. Alex wrestles briefly with a flare of irritation – all his friends have been careful with him over the past few days, and he _gets it,_ he honestly does, but being watched like a timed explosive is getting old _incredibly_ quickly.

“Hey,” he says. “You do know it's barely 6 AM, right? On a Saturday?”

“You're awake,” Lafayette points out, brow creasing as he glances back at his laptop.

Alex smiles wryly. “Yeah, because _I'm_ the poster boy for good life choices.” His body is fixed to the now-defunct rhythm of early mornings and late nights – the past year at Washington's beck and call probably rewired his brain in more ways than one. Like it needed additional fucking up.

Lafayette snorts, mouth twitching into a brief smile. He looks significantly less put-together than usual, even considering the early hour, one hand propping up his chin as he blinks slowly at his screen.

“Do you want coffee? I fucked mine up, so...”

Lafayette shoots him a grateful look and pushes his mug towards Alex. “You're an angel.”

Alex rolls his eyes and takes his cup. “That's a first.”

It's a little easier, with his back turned and the coffeemaker on. He can't really hear the rapid-fire typing, can't see Lafayette's shifting expression and try to gauge what he's working on. Alex glances up at the cupboards overhead, wonders if he should make cereal, or something. He has time, now, doesn't have to live on granola bars stuffed in his mouth on his way out the door.

A half-snarled curse has him turning towards the kitchen table – Lafayette scowls at his screen, gaze suddenly laser-focused. There's a half-dozen projects Alex can immediately think of that would provoke that reaction, messy and infuriating and so fucking satisfying to unravel, most of them his – were his. Alex turns back around, stares at the solid red light on the coffeemaker until everything else starts to blur, and the swell of jealousy and regret dulls to a low hum at the back of his brain.

“Alex?”

Alex blinks, horrified to find his eyes stinging. “Yeah?”

“The coffee is ready, I think.”

The red light blinks merrily back at him. He pours Lafayette's cup first, then his own, does his best to ignore the concerned look his friend fixes him with.

“How's it going?” Alex asks, hopefully heading off any questions about how he's holding up.

Lafayette looks at him, something startlingly close to guilt in his eyes before he shutters it. “I'm going to quit and leave this hell country,” he mutters, sipping his coffee with pure disdain. He pulls a face, frowns down into the cup. “This is tar, not coffee.”

Alex shrugs, resting his hip against the table as he drinks. It's not that strong. “I have... if you're taking over for me, there's some stuff I should give you.”

Lafayette pauses, and after a moment, he shuts his laptop. “Alex...”

“No, it's fine. I'm fine.” His fingers ache, a little, where they're wrapped too tightly around the mug. “I'm trying to be professional, here. I have notes, paperwork that needs to get back to the office. I can give them to you before you leave today. That's all I wanted to say.”

“Not yet,” Lafayette says, shaking his head. “Give it time.”

Alex grinds his teeth briefly, a flare of pain at his temples. “Can we be serious here?”

Lafayette sighs. “It’s a _suspension,_ Alex --”

“He doesn’t _trust me_ anymore, he’s not going to let me come back --”

“ _C’est des conneries.”_

Alex swallows thickly, hating the ache in his throat, the infantile hope that blooms beneath it. “ _Tu n'étais pas là_.” There’s no way to explain the surety of what he felt in Washington’s office, not in any of his languages, but he is dead certain that their relationship will never go back to what it was.

Lafayette frowns, easing back in his chair. “Still. _Pas encore._ If it happens, give me the files, and I will take you out to get _very_ drunk. Deal?”

Alex huffs. “And what do you get if you’re right? Satisfaction?”

Lafayette brightens considerably, like he knows he's won. “Satisfaction,” he agrees, a slow smirk crawling across his face as he adds, “and you buy _my_ drinks when we celebrate.”

\-------

“Alex!” Angelica calls.

“What?”

“Your phone went off – I think it's an email.”

“Just ignore it, it's probably spam.” He pats his pockets, frowning. “Eliza, have you seen my keys?”

“Couch, I think – put the cushions back properly, Alex, I'm serious. Angelica, _hurry,_ our reservations are in a half-hour.”

Angelica appears in the kitchen doorway, her expression unreadable.

Eliza glances over, shouldering her purse. “What's wrong? Were the earrings not there?”

Angelica holds Alex's phone out. “You're going to want to check this. It's from Washington.”

He takes the phone, feels the world pitch a little under his feet.

“Alex? Is everything okay?”

Apparently, he owes Lafayette so, so much alcohol.

\-------

Alex comes into work on a Monday morning, the street pre-dawn silent. His stomach is in his throat, the way it was the first time he walked into the building, the last time he left it. Washington is standing in the doorway to his office -- waiting for him, or maybe he just got in. Alex isn’t sure which he’d rather believe.

“Hamilton.”

Alex meets his gaze head-on, more confrontational than may be appropriate, but he's never known any other way. Washington, until now, has never begrudged him that. His mouth is dry, his posture impeccable.

“Sir.”

Neither of them apologize. Alex considers it, looking up at Washington's face, the exhaustion carved into it – he swears there are new lines under the older man's eyes, and he's not sure how to feel about that certainty or its implications. But then he remembers the eviscerating sense of loss he felt when this man dismissed him, like he and his work meant nothing.

It feels a bit like their first meeting, his interview with this man admired by so many, refracted through a fun-house mirror. Washington measuring him up, determining if he's worth the trouble – the same feelings of elation and uncertainty, corrupted now with... god. He doesn't know.

 _I can't,_ he thinks. _If I give you this I'll have nothing. I can't._ If Washington presses him for gratitude or repentance he'll turn on his heel and go, take Washington up on the recommendation he offered in his email and never look back. He could do it, now. He made it back up, he could walk away from it all and leave the weight behind.

Washington steps back, gives ground for Alex to pass through. Crossing that space feels at once like the greatest mistake of his entire life, and like fitting back into place as if he never left at all. Dangerous, to think that in light of everything that's happened – the last time a hurricane came for him, he left the island. Insane, to go back to the place where he was hurt, where there was nothing left for him. An exercise in futility, no matter how much he missed St. Croix’s sunshine.

From where he's standing, Alex can see Washington's desk, his laptop – was he sitting in this room when he sent the email? Alex wonders for the umpteenth time if Washington had even a fraction of doubt when he hit _send,_ or if he always knew they would end up back here. Alex desperately wants to believe he’s not that predictable.

The framed photo, nearly obscured by piles of paperwork -- soon to be added to with the pages in Alex's shoulder bag. Washington probably got in moments before he did – frankly, the office is a mess.

The sun hasn't breached the cityscape yet. Outside Washington's window is an endless sea of lights.

There's a box of doughnuts waiting for him when he comes home. Sharpie'd across the top, in John's fucking train-wreck handwriting: _THAT WAS CLOSE._

Alex starts laughing, and by the time he stops, his cheeks are wet and his dozen is down by three.

\-------

Someone slides into the seat next to him. This is not the first time tonight, and Alex is beginning to run out of reasons to say no. _I don't want to_ seems insufficient. He'll leave before he forgets how to say it. He always does.

One of the men was tall, and broad, and in the shitty light _I don't want to_ was – still accurate, because he's not so far gone, but less accurate than it was for the brunette with the nice smile and the low-cut top.

“I'm not buying you a drink,” Alex says, and John snorts out a laugh.

“Does Eliza know you’re here?” John asks, leaning his elbow onto the bar-top.

This isn't the night Lafayette took him out for celebratory shots. That passed. Alex is – was – drinking alone, with a bassline thrumming through his skull that, for once, isn't of his own making.

“No.” His phone has been on silent for an hour. There were three calls from her before that, one from Angelica. He didn't skip out on a date. He may have skipped out on plans to make a date. “Did she call you?”

John hums. He stays quiet for a long moment. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks finally.

“ _Fuck_ no.” There's nothing to say – nothing's happened. As usual, it's all in his head – how the hell does he say _I thought I smelled Washington's cologne on the subway and it made me need to drink heavily_ without sounding like he's finally lost his mind?

“Alright.” John pushes away from the bar, his grin all liquid-easy and infectious. “Wanna dance?”

Alex drains the rest of his glass, crunches the ice in his teeth just to see John wince. “Sure.”

“Freak,” John mutters fondly. It’s barely audible over the music, but Alex is long familiar with the shape of the word on his lips. John laughs, reaches out to grab his hand. His palm is warm, a little sweaty from where he was grabbing the stool.

The dance floor is packed, bodies pressing against his urgently. Alex smells sweat and booze and perfume and cologne, and there's so _much_ of it that none of it smells much like anything. He vaguely wants to vomit. He can't hear himself think – that, he likes. That, and the way it doesn't matter if he spins or is spun, if hands are on his hips or not.

The light are violently bright, and big, and they look nothing at all like a top-floor view.

He wonders, abruptly, if kissing John would help.

He wonders if dragging John somewhere quiet and telling him everything, insane or not, would help.

He rests their foreheads together instead, feels the reverberations of John's laughter even if he can't pick it out among the din.

Behind his eyelids, the room is still swirling neon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *C’est des conneries = that's bullshit. Tu n'étais pas là = you weren't there. Pas encore = not yet.  
> *Special thanks to Hobbes for responding to my frantic screaming messages of "HOLY SHIT IT'S FINISHED"  
> *One day Washington will be more than a specter haunting this 'verse. That day? Not today.  
> *For the record, Eliza Schuyler deserves so much better. I'm sorry, honey.

**Author's Note:**

> *Sisyphus was a character in Greek mythology punished for his self-aggrandization and attempt to trick the gods for his own gain -- he rolls a boulder to the top of a hill in the underworld, only for the boulder to roll down again and necessitate the eternal repetition of the task.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! Drop a kudos/comment if you enjoyed.


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